The quiet market town of Purley has rarely witnessed
stranger events than those reported by leading Rotarian and Purley hotelier,
Mrs Ida Plunkett, who unwittingly played host to nine, undead ghouls.

Mrs Plunkett (36DD-32-38),
spoke exclusively to Utterpants
about her shock upon discovering that the nine mounted gentlemen, who
had booked the entire 4th floor of the Purley Hilton Hotel, were none
other than the terrifying servants of the Bank of Mordor, who have been
terrorizing citizens in their hunt for the mysterious "Baggins."

"I
didn't see their horses, at first," said the shaken mother of eight,
"If you can call them horses—they looked more like pterodactyls
with legs to me—though I'm not sure if pterodactyls have legs...
Anyway, they must have hidden them behind the pot plants while they
were booking in, because I distinctly remember telling them no pets
were allowed in guests' rooms after 8 'o clock at night. I was a bit
suspicious when they told me they were private investigators looking
for a notorious jewel thief. I mean, who ever heard of private investigators
wearing black cloaks and carrying four foot swords? But bookings have
been a bit down of late on account of the Balrog
staying in room 42, so I let them stay. It was only when their leader
tried to pay the bill with gold rings that I smelled a rat. 'What's
wrong with Visa? 'I asked him. 'Visssah?' he hissed in his queer, foreign,
voice, 'My Massster hasss no Visssah—only these ringsss. We come
from MOR-DOR, if the name means anything to you!' That was enough for
me, I mean The Bank of Mordor! They're worse than Enron, aren't they?
Regular blood-suckers,
my husband says. My legs was that wobbly I barely had the strength to
ring the alarm. After that, things are pretty hazy until I woke up in
the hospital without my knickers or my wedding ring."

Sightings of the undead Witch Queen and her eight
leather-clad transsexual companions were also reported by other local
residents. Ms Freya Plunkett (no relation), spoke of her ordeal when
the Ringwraiths burst into Ponsenby's Gift Shop on the Bywater Road.
"At first I thought it was the Bailiffs come to repossess the shop,"
said Ms Plunkett (19). "They were a faceless gang of blood-suckers
dressed all in black, talking gibberish, so I naturally assumed they
must be bankers. It wasn't until Miss Ponsenby pointed out that bankers
don't carry swords, that the penny dropped. I tried to explain we only
sold handbags but they kept insisting we hand over 'baggins'—whatever
that is. In the end they ripped the shop apart, stole my belly button
ring and stormed out without buying a thing."

The plucky proprietor of the Purley Adult Shop,
one Anastacia Plunkett (no relation) was not intimidated by the undead
ghouls when she found one of them rifling through a display of penis
rings in his search for the mysterious 'Baggins'. "The dirty old
perve looked for all the world like ex-Home Secretary David Plonker.
I've suspected all along the government was
tapping our phones, so it was no surprise to find that notorious
womaniser playing with himself in my shop. No wonder the fat git is
blind! 'I'll give you 'Baggins,' I told him and kicked his bony backside
down the stairs."

The Witch Queen and her party have not been seen
since their hurried departure from the Purley Hilton, but their publicity
agent, a Mr William B Ferney, gave the following statement to us: "We'll
be back! We will stop at nothing to recover the Bank of Mordor's rightful
property. Baggins will pay dearly for his temerity, just you wait and
see!"

Utterpants
can exclusively reveal that the 'Baggins' sought by the nine undead
ghouls is not a bag containing stolen valuables, but a 'Mr F Baggins'—an
impecunious jobbing, stockbroker from Bagshot. Apparently, Mr Baggins
is wanted in connection with the mysterious disappearance of his second
cousin, Bilbo, and an enormous pile of cash, alleged to have been stolen
from a secret underground vault belonging to a company of strolling
midgets. The Bank of Mordor referred us to a Mr S Gollum, who subjected
our researcher to a tirade of hysterical abuse, before vouchsafing the
information that he would be damned if he would stand being robbed of
his inheritance by 'that miserable trickster'. When pressed to explain
what he meant by this, he would only say: "Thief! thief! Baggins!
We hates it forever!"

All efforts to contact the elusive Mr Baggins have so far proved unsuccessful.